


Told You So

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Sexy But Not Smutty, Shameless Sammy Objectification, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 18:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: The doc for this is titled “Shameless Sammy objectification.”





	Told You So

Nothing had changed, was the thing. Nothing was extraordinary about that case, or that night, or the post-hunt ritual of sitting around drinking and talking shit, or  _ anything _ . It was Dean, Sam, and me, slouching in our chairs and downing beers. It should’ve been just like the other handful of times I’d found myself at the bunker in this same exact spot.  

 

It wasn’t. It really,  _ really _ fucking wasn’t. 

 

And I’d always had a bit of a crush on Sam, sure. There had always been something there, and it was fun as hell to flirt and tease when I saw him; he always seemed more than willing to tease and flirt right back, and I giggled and batted my eyelashes and then went on my way without pining or fantasizing or wishing it could be more. 

 

Okay, maybe there was a little fantasizing. I’m only human. 

 

Sam was  _ watching _ me. He wasn’t watching Dean, even as he nodded along to whatever the fuck his brother was talking about. He wasn’t watching the beer bottle as he brought it to his mouth again, and  _ guh, mouth, _ my brain insisted. He was watching me with a soft smile playing over his lips, and for once he wasn’t ducking his head or making an excuse or looking away, flustered, as soon as I met his gaze. He was just… watching. 

 

“I mean, I’m sorry, but anyone who says that is kidding themselves,” Dean was saying, rolling his eyes expressively.

 

“Says what?” I asked. “Sorry, zoned out.” 

 

“That size doesn’t matter,” Sam filled in. 

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

 

“It’s not everything,” I hedged, avoiding his eyes. 

 

“Of course it’s not everything,” Dean scoffed, and I buckled in for another Dean Winchester “Sex And Why It Is A Wonderful Thing That Everyone Should Have More Of” monologue. “But I don’t even mean the size of the ship or whatever the fucking metaphor is.” 

 

Okay, that was a relief. I wasn’t sure I could handle a dick discussion, not with the thoughts I’d been entertaining all night about Sam. All night or, y’know, all year. 

 

It wasn’t my fault he liked to go running in those sweatpants, the ones that sagged low on his hips and just fucking draped. And maybe I’d caught a very memorable glimpse, about a year earlier, of the fabric draping in such a way that it was painfully, breathtakingly, mind-numbingly obvious what Sam was packing, and maybe my imagination had been running away with it ever since. 

 

Hngh.

 

“...just being able to toss her around, that’s all. Get her up against the wall. Like that fucking scene in Buffy. That was Sam’s jerkoff material for his entire thirteenth year.” He smirked at Sam, who just shrugged, like _ yeah, duh _ . 

 

“They had Slayer and vamp strength, though, it’s not like you can do shit like that in real life,” I pointed out, pretty reasonably considering the way my pulse was suddenly pounding. 

 

“Well I’ve never knocked a wall down, but…” started Dean. 

 

“Maybe it happens with those little delicate waif chicks,” I interrupted, with a fuckload more bravado than I felt. “Those of us who weigh more than a hundred pounds? Shit doesn’t work.” 

 

“I could lift you, easy,” Sam said. He chuckled, almost shy, but he was looking at me with this sly, knowing twinkle in his eye, and there was no way in hell I was imagining it this time. I could feel my blush all the way from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. 

 

“One time I tried to do that thing where you just, like, hold them while you’re standing up,” Dean said. My eyebrows skyrocketed up toward my hairline. He mimed bouncing something on his lap.  

 

“Yeah, totally,” Sam agreed. I made an utterly embarrassing squeaky noise. Dean cheerfully continued like he hadn’t heard it. 

 

Jesus pogo-jumping Christ. I was never, ever going to get that image out of my head. 

 

And Sam was looking at me sideways like he fucking knew it, that smug bastard, and I watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he ran one elegant hand through his messy hair, and I was so, so completely fucked. 

 

“...and that was how I almost sprained my dick,” Dean finished. “Jesus, what’s going on with you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush before.” 

 

“I’m not blushing,” I insisted, lying through my teeth. 

 

“I’ve heard you say some wild shit, kid, don’t even try to play innocent,” he retorted, and oh, god, he was totally right, and my traitor of a brain was too busy assessing the stupid-hot way Sam had just licked his lower lip (guh) to come up with any sort of excuse. 

 

“Anybody else need another one?” I asked abruptly. I stood up, and from across the table I could see Sam’s eyes dart down and then up again, roaming over my body in a way that made me flush hotter, if that was even possible. He held up his mostly full bottle as a response.

 

When it had started earlier, I’d been able to convince myself that it was just my imagination. After the fight, he’d let his hand linger just a beat too long at the small of my back as he asked whether I was hurt. During the drive home, I made some snarky comment and he turned around in his seat to grin in appreciation, and his smile made me feel like I was glowing. And then it was just one thing after another: electric glances and half-smiles and a brush of his fingers over my wrist that I felt for fifteen minutes after he pulled away. Those fucking  _ fingers _ . 

 

I hadn’t been imagining it, though. 

 

Heat squirmed through my stomach. I closed the fridge and found the bottle opener, but before I bothered to take a sip, I pressed the cool glass to my cheeks, one after the other, taking a deep breath. 

 

“You okay?” said Sam’s voice, so close to my back that I almost shrieked. I managed to turn around without spilling more than an inch or so of beer down my shirt. I counted it as a win. 

 

He was close, towering over me with his hazel eyes sparkling behind long lashes, and it just wasn’t fair: the dimples, the collarbones, the sweet shy smile and the biceps and the heat of his body, so close, and on top of all that, the fact that he was Sam. He was badass and smart and capable and kind. He saved the world on a routine fucking basis. Let’s be honest, I never stood a chance. 

 

“You really think you could lift me like that?” I asked. It came out low and breathless when I’d been aiming for skeptical. 

 

He grinned with this sharp, predatory edge that I had never seen before, and then he was stepping forward, crowding into my space until I took an instinctive step back, right into the edge of the counter.

 

Whoa. 

 

Inch by inch he sidled closer, leaning in, and I knew he was waiting for me to laugh it off or slide away, but no. The rational part of my brain, which usually organized that sort of thing, was completely offline. My hormones had staged a mutiny. They were steering the ship now. 

 

Sam’s hips made contact with mine (or, more accurately, my stomach, because he was a fucking giant) and I felt the warm pressure shoot sparks all over my skin. My hormones did a victory dance. 

 

He leaned forward, making me arch my back to match the curve of his body, and then there were hands on my thighs and before my head could catch up with my racing heart, he scooped me up like it was nothing. I ended up pinned, barely perched on the edge of the counter, most of my weight supported by Sam and his hips and his fucking hands. 

 

I slid my arms up around his neck and took a deep breath, and I could feel him doing the same, his chest rising and falling where it was (fuck) pressed against mine. When I looked sideways I could see the dimpled corner of his smile and the flutter of his pulse under his jaw. 

 

“Okay?” he whispered. Goosebumps shivered down my neck. I wrapped my legs around his waist and made some vague noise of assent. 

 

Sam didn’t stagger or overbalance as he stepped back. He didn’t even seem to notice my weight, just held me with steady hands cupped just under my ass. We were pressed together, torso to torso, and I could feel the heat of him radiating through his thin shirt, all the way down to where my legs were spread wide. Especially there. 

 

“I guess that answers that question,” I said. My voice cracked. I couldn’t take my eyes off the curve where his neck met his shoulder. There was a tendon straining there, the only indication that he was exerting himself in any way. 

 

He chuckled quietly, and I felt his breath against my ear. “Do I get to say I told you so?” I was gratified to hear the tremor in his voice. 

 

“Can I stop you?” 

 

“Probably not.” 

 

“Well then. If you must.” 

 

“Told you so.” 

 

“I’ll never doubt you again. Hey, Sam?” 

 

“Yes?” 

 

“Shut up.” 

 

“Right,” he panted. All I could do was cling to him as he started walking. I didn’t realize what was happening until my back made contact with the wall, knocking the breath out of my lungs. 

 

“Oh,” I managed, and then his lips were on mine, hungry and sure, and his hips were grinding up into me, heat and pressure and friction that pulled a long, rough moan from my throat. The realization that he was hard sent a blinding flash of need through me, because whoa. 

 

All those fantasies? Not even close, my brain supplied helpfully, and that was my last coherent thought for a very long time. 

  
  



End file.
